Casino
by Bellsie805
Summary: Cuddy goes on vacation to the beach. Some sun, no sand, and quite a boatload of fun actually, angst, but still, fun!
1. Sunday

**Author's Note: **This is a spin-off from my story _July 17th_. This is the chapter included in that story and the start of this story—Cuddy's week at the beach. _House_ isn't mine and neither are any of the lyrics/epigrams included herein. Thanks Marti for the beta!

_Princess cards she sends me with her regards _

_Barroom eyes shine vacancy, to see her you gotta look hard…_

_And don't call for your surgeon, even he says it's too late _

_It's not your lungs this time, it's your heart that holds your fate…_

_Didn't you think I knew that you were born with the power of a locomotive _

_Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?... _

_And your strength is devastating in the face of all these odds…_

_--Bruce Springsteen, "For You"_

She refuses to go to Atlantic City because gambling is a terrible affliction from which her father suffers, yet she finds no harm in spending the weekend before the fourth of July in a nameless seaside town playing the fake slots in the aptly titled "Fantasy Island." She tells herself that she is winning these gifts for her nieces and nephews—that this isn't her father's problem.

No, she sits at the fifteen-point-ticket slots (not the progressives—she hates the progressive slots), and puts in the requisite three-quarter maximum. She plays the max because she knows that putting in less will result in her kicking herself in the ass when she hits a jackpot with two coins in the damn machine.

She smiles at several children who rush by with bunches of yellow tickets in their hands. The man next to her smiles at them and hands one of them a twenty so they can refill their arsenal of quarters. He shakes his head and puts three more quarters in the machine. He watches her stare at his children.

"What we do for our kids," he comments before she realizes she's staring. She turns away.

"Yeah," she mutters (she doesn't have any kids—what we don't do for our children).

She pushes the lighted buttons and wonders why she's here. She's like House hiding from clinic duty. She's hiding from her responsibility. She's on vacation; she doesn't justify herself to anyone.

"How long have you been playing those slots?" The chatty man next to her asks.

"A while."

"How old are your kids?"

"Fifteen and twelve. They're with their father."

"Oh."

His mouth frowns sympathetically. She wants to laugh at her lies and his fake sympathy (it's good it's fake, since her story is after all a lie. She wouldn't want real sympathy to go to waste on her)

"What's your name?"

"Lisa."

"Joe."

She shakes his hand without taking her eyes off the spinning wheels. The machine is aptly called "Wheels and Deals." When it lands on three of the jackpot icons, her mouth opens.

"I hit the jackpot," she murmurs.

"Can I use that as an excuse to buy you a drink?" Joe asks from next to her.

She glares at him and ushers over one of the teenage boys who work at this arcade.

"Excuse me. I hit the jackpot. I need my winnings."

She stands possessively by the machine while the boy goes to get her her receipt. Joe presses his advantage.

"C'mon. We can celebrate your jackpot," he tells her.

She smiles and leans down. Her face stops in front of his.

"Go screw yourself. And this is the closest view of my breasts you're ever going to get," she hisses.

His smile fades and hers grows. The kid comes back with her check—15,000 points.

"Congratulations," Joe tells her.

"Thanks," she replies and stand up to leave.

When she is almost through the door, Joe shouts to her.

"I own a Rolls!"

She smirks when she turns around to look at him. Sparring practice with House has prepared her for this.

"What are you compensating for?"

The door swings shut behind her.

"I hope his kids heard that," she whispers to the air.

;';

It's one o'clock when the _MASH _marathon ends and she decides it'd be a good idea to go to bed. She can feel the headache growing in the back of her mind and she hits the bed with a thump. She can't remember if the doors are locked or if it even matters. Her spine tingles as she relaxes.

And that's when _they _come. Not the men who want to put her in the asylum or the demons she feared as a child, but the thoughts that permeate her mind before her descent into sleep. They're incoherent and jumbled, never seeming to make sense, but always seeming important.

She doesn't know, but she thinks that sanity's a fine and overrated ideal and that people are all insane. Infirm. Ill. Sick. What we do to one another, she muses. War is just utterly _against_ every bit of common sense humans _should_ have. Rape, murder…this world spins and she carries on because what else can she do? Perhaps that is why she entered medicine. Saving people, not destroying them.

She reminds herself that she was once going to enter law. She interned for a summer with a lawyer and went to trial, but it was a murder case and the key witness was a child. And…

She watched the child's eyes on the stand. The cross examination was relatively soft, but still. A child. She remembers wondering, _Oh, Lord, why do we subject our children to this?_

The answers are varied, but she settles on the conclusion that even our desire to protect our children is not greater than our desire for the truth.

She rolls over to stare at the glowing clock. Her Bose radio plays piano adagios because she accidentally left her CD collection containing Dylan, Henley, and Springsteen sitting on her kitchen counter at home. She could use some of Dylan's easy-going guitar, Henley's loving lyrics, and Springsteen's sultry, scathing voice. She wants the indictments of rock singers not the pardons of dead composers.

"Why can't I get a guy who plays decent guitar?" She murmurs into her pillow.

There's House whose fingers stroke piano keys and heal dying patients. He wouldn't have the patience for a temperamental guitar (and guitars do not live in symbiosis with the minor key). There's Wilson whose delicate hands would never hold up to the abuse of a guitar and its pick (he'd strum out loving harmonies and support, but he could never take the center stage). There's Foreman who's too full of street-cred to play a soulful ballad (there'd be too many angry shouts.) Of course there is Chase, who seems like he could be in a boy-band (she doesn't want boy-band! She wants a real man!)

She can't sleep, so she props her elbows up on her pillows. The windows are open and she can hear moving water. She knows it's the bay because it's closest to the house, but she feels romantic and decides that it's the wind from the ocean carrying the sound of crashing waves to her bedroom window.

She slaps the pillow with a force unbeknownst to her. A siren screams through the night and she's the only one who can hear it. She gets out of bed without a second thought, slips on her pink slippers, and ignores her robe.

By the time she reaches the street, she doesn't remember walking through the house and thinking this was a good idea. She's in her boxer shorts and tank top (she likes to feel young when she sleeps). She starts walking. She doesn't know where and she doesn't particularly know why, but she walks. Because walking is the only thing her body acquiesces to do at the moment.

It's a _shuffle, _then a_ scrape, shuffle, scrape_ that keeps the rhythm and her soul basks in the grittiness of imperfection. Glossed over piano compositions are nice, but nothing compares to Springsteen growling about making love to Crazy Janie on some unknown shore. Or to Dylan shouting melodically _how does it feel_? And of course, there are Henley's lines that echo forever in the head of her, a doctor. _Someone's going to emergency; someone's going to jail._ She settles for the sounds of her slippers on pavement.

She crosses empty streets and travels four blocks in the dark. She climbs the gray-planked stairs and makes her way onto the beach. The moon pulls the waves and gravity's suddenly more than just a necessity. It's beautiful.

Her slippers end up tucked behind the bench and she makes her way down onto the beach. There are waves crashing and seagulls sleeping, but the ocean reminds her she's only mortal.

She plops down on a tract of sand where the waves can just barely lap at her feet. They tease her and beg her, but she refuses to wade into the deep. She's fine being isolated, thank-you-very-much.

There are no stars visible because there are city lights. Humans and their long affair with electricity. She'd rather gaze at God's holy creations.

There's much to think about and she'd rather not do it now. She concedes that she could have any guy she wanted, as evidenced by her encounter with the rich man at Fantasy Island. She has brains, beauty, and a good deal of strength. She wants someone, though, but she doesn't know whom.

She pulls her knees to her chest and clasps her arms around them. It's her safety pose and she searches for a comforting thought. She lands on it relatively quickly.

_This isn't her father's problem_.


	2. Monday

_The heart is a bloom, shoots up through the stony ground _

_Gut there's no room, no space to rent in this town _

_You're out of luck, and the reason that you had to care _

_The traffic is stuck, and you're not moving anywhere _

_You thought you'd found a friend, to take you out of this place _

_Someone you could lend a hand in return for grace _

_It's a beautiful day. (day . . .) _

_The sky falls, and you feel like _

_It's a beautiful day._

_--U2, "Beautiful Day"_

The headline on the _USA Today_ announces that "Soldiers re-enlist beyond U.S. goal; Troops help offset recruiting shortfall." She can't decide if she's glad or not (that the US has more fighting forces). More bodies (living and dead), more grief (real and feigned), and more horrible headlines (lies and truths.) She doesn't know what to think or what to feel (she's proud to be an American but at the cost of how many lives?)

One day, she figures as she tucks the newspaper under her arm, one day she'll be old and on the brink of Alzheimer's (what a terrible disease). One day she won't understand any of this. She won't know the difference between war (death) and love (life.) She'll simply be (and be happy—or sad. But does it matter if she doesn't know the difference in her own mind?)

She walks because gas is expensive and she'd rather not waste liquid money on laziness. Her sandals _thwack_ against the pavement (and flip and flop.) She squints through sunglasses at the people walking in front of her. She doesn't know them, but she loves just looking at people—making up their life stories (usually far-fetched and involving lots of kids and a handsome spouse.)

There is no wait to get into the restaurant (The Chicken and the Egg) because it is 8 in the morning and no one gets up this early when they're on vacation. She pushes open the wooden door and requests a table for one. The hostess leads her to a small table against the wall. She doesn't even look at the menu and waits for her waiter to come and take her order (she's a creature of habit and does not like an interruption of routine.) She spreads the newspaper on the table as she waits and continues to read about the headlines and the world today.

"Hi, my name's Greg—" Cuddy's head pops up from her scanning of the Rovegate article, "—and I'll be your waiter for this morning. Can I get you something to drink?"

The boy is handsome, she notes as she lets her eyes roam over his face (he's tall and has blonde hair). He seems confident (and young.) She smiles and hands him the menu.

"I'll have a large chocolate milk, two eggs over easy, bacon, home fries, and rye toast with butter, please," she requests with a smile on her face.

He takes the menu and finishes writing.

"I'll be back with your order shortly," he informs her and leaves the table.

She sighs and goes back to her paper.

(She could use some coffee, now that she thinks of it, but coffee makes her jittery and she's at the seashore—no reason to be wired up on coffee when surrounded by beauty.)

There is not anything of importance in the newspaper. It's the same rehashed news as the day before (and she lurks on the internet enough to be up-to-date on everything that has occurred in the gap between papers.)

She folds it up and puts it on the placemat across from her. No one'll be sitting there any way (no one ever sits across from her.)

The boy (he could be a man, but she knows men and he isn't yet up to her standard) comes back from the oblivion of the kitchen bearing her chocolate milk and a mug of something she thinks is incredibly suspicious (coffee!) Perhaps he read her mind (or her face). Perhaps he wants to impress her. He is not bad looking. He seems nice. He works. He'd be a fun, little, three-day fling. They could play mini-golf and eat Ben and Jerry's ice cream. They could have fun. (Somewhere, she imagines House laughing—loudly and obnoxiously.)

He places the milk in front of her.

"Thank you—" she tells him but is cut off as he walks away to place the mug on someone else's table.

She gawks (because polite behavior is not her forte.) She grapples for her purse and flips open her compact mirror. She stares at her face. No zits, no flaws, _perfection_.

(And then she realizes that Greg-the-waiter is not Greg-the-bastard and he won't make comments about her breasts because he's a professional. Well, House is, too, but professional isn't the first one that comes to mind when she thinks of him.)

She mentally slaps herself. Being pretty means lots of things in this world. But she knows she shouldn't think that every man finds her pretty (beauty is in the eye of the beholder.) She's tried to get away from the '50s (and today's) social demand that the man must define a woman. But now…how can she revert back to a vain beauty queen (a redundant term) after what she's succeeded in gaining for herself? The beauty of the beach is betraying her. Its romanticism is getting to her (and through her and it's infiltrating her cracks and crevices like wet sand.)

She sips her chocolate milk (cold and much better than coffee.) She waits ten minutes and no more because her food is whisked out by a girl who is not Greg-the-waiter (because she gave him lovey-dovey eyes even though he's twenty-some years younger than she is? Mental note: stop watching Cameron lust over an older House.)

The girl tells her to enjoy her meal and leaves without any other comment. Cuddy stares at the eggs (she thinks the yolk serves its purpose as the iris and the white as the sclera). She loses the contest and has to blink back tears and gulp down egg whites because she's _emotional_. (She berates herself for being emotional over breakfast. It's breakfast!)

She swallows chocolate milk and bacon with equal passion (she's afraid of becoming Cameron—she doesn't cry delivering news to patients.) She briefly wonders how she can put on an act for everyone she works with, but can't help but let her emotions take hold of her when she's on vacation (she's on day 14 of her menstrual cycle—hormones already?)

The waiter brings her the check and she secretly hopes he has scribbled his number on the back. But he hasn't and she decides to end her love affair with this younger man (even if it hasn't started.) She grabs the paper, her purse, and the check and makes her way to the counter. She removes a five-dollar bill and hands it to the cashier. The cashier hands Cuddy her change and she proceeds to leave, newspaper and purse in hand.

There is a bookstore across the street and she crosses (jaywalks) to it. She opens the door and the pungent smell of paper, ocean salt, and minty perfume fills her nostrils. She inhales deeply (this odor bears the smell of years.) She peruses the magazines first.

The women on all the fashion magazines are beautiful, slender, and famous (and she's not.) She's pretty, she's smart, but that doesn't matter.

She walks down the aisles and stops briefly at the classic literature section. She picks _The Great Gatsby_ (because she's in the mood for tragic romance), _Mrs. Dalloway_ (because she needs florid language), and _The Bell Jar_ (because she remembers reading it once and she wants to know if she is still as trapped as Esther.)

When she moves on to the next aisle, she passes by the light reading books (legal thrillers, bodice-rippers, mindless fluff) and instead picks up a book she had heard about briefly, _Oh, Pure and Radiant Heart _(tidings of time travel and nuclear annihilation). She plucks it off the shelf and adds it to her stack of books.

She finishes stalking up and down the aisles looking for something eye-catching (a familiar title, author, or pretty binding.) She finds nothing and pays for her purchases (no boy behind the counter—an older woman with graying hair and benevolent smile. Her eyes speak of books read and of things unwritten. Cuddy shivers because the air-conditing is blowing too hard.)

A set of jingle bells ring when she exits the store. She smiles and starts humming to herself (_have a holly jolly Christmas_, _oh by golly have a holly jolly Christmas this year_.) She always listens to Christmas music in July, even if she is Jewish and it's summer.

She takes a left and makes her way to the beach (to increase her chance of melanoma, but she's a doctor and laughs in the face of danger!)

She reaches the beach, slips off her expensive (and useless) tunic, and lays the towel (that had previously been hiding in her large tote) on the sand. She settles herself down on the ground. She reclines on her towel and spends the rest of the day reading,

;';

"What's a pretty lady like you doing reading about dead nuclear scientists? Lisa, right?"

She lifts her head up (although she wishes she could bury it in the sand.)

"And you're asshole, right?"

It's really a mean thing to say and she can see the shadow of pain cross over his face. She doesn't like being hit on by married men with children.

"So now would probably be a bad time to ask you to dinner?" He asks. She rolls her eyes at the book (this man barely even knows her!)

"Aren't you married?" She snipes.

"Wife's been gone for three years now," he shrugs in response.

(He doesn't elaborate on whether the wife is dead or divorced, but Cuddy is not in the mood for speculation.)

"Sorry."

"What about you?"

There are no comfortable answers to that question. She really wants to leave, but the man is (unfortunately) staying.

"I don't discuss my private life with _strangers_," she makes sure she emphasizes the last word.

"You said you had kids?"

_And I said that because I never expected to see you again_.

"Yeah," she responds (denial's never been her strong suit.)

"Well, they can hang out with my kids while we chat. How about it?"

She sighs and closes her book.

"I have to go."

"Seven at Ott's?"  
She looks at his face. He's older (maybe as old as she, but probably younger), with graying hair. He's six feet tall and lean—probably a runner.

"Yeah," she stands up and shakes out her towel.

"Can't wait," he enthuses.

"Yeah," she replies and throws the towel over her arm.

She starts walking away, but he grabs her arm.

"I'm sorry for yesterday, by the way. I haven't met a pretty woman in a long time. Kind of tactless you know?" He apologizes gently.

"It's also tactless to grab my arm like that. Go make sure your kids aren't drowning or something," she tells him and wrenches her arm free.

She makes sure she takes a long and winding path back to her home.

;';

He's normal, she concedes, he has all his fingers, doesn't limp, and drives a Rolls-Royce (she has yet to see.) He's relatively handsome, has children, and seems stable. Yet, at 7, when she should be at Ott's Diner, she curls up on her bed with all the doors locked and watches a documentary on cereal on the History Channel. She berates herself for being hypocritical and she listens to the tales of Kellogg and Post. She wants a man, just not one who seems credible.

She buries her head in the pillow. Suffocation's always an option. But then again, who would run the hospital (House would have a field day running around without her firm hand.)

"…And coming up next, the cereal that was created by a fortuitous mistake."

Many things come of fortuitous mistakes, she thinks. Her job, her life, her dinner invitation. (Also, it seems, Rice Krispies.)

But it's not fortunate mistakes that concern her at the moment. It's conscious decisions and choices made. It's guilt and other funny emotions. She's going to have to spend the next three days avoiding a man she didn't meet for dinner. She's going to have to stay in the house and not come out of it.

Her vacation has suddenly fallen to pieces. She hopes that, perhaps, she'll dream of something interesting when she does succumb to sleep. Like running an efficient hospital (or House following some rule.) She sighs.

;';

When she wakes up in the morning, she doesn't remember dreaming.


	3. Tuesday

**Author's Note:** All the places mentioned in this story are real. The Chicken and the Egg, Fantasy Island, Ben and Jerry's, the book store, etc. are found in Long Beach Island, which is on the Jersey Shore. A beautiful and nice place to vacation. "Oh Pure and Radiant Heart" is about the three men who helped create the atomic bomb time traveling to today. Beautifully written and not mine. Read it.

—_What I'm telling you, said Szilard, —is that it's coming to a head. History does have an end: ask the dinosaurs and the Carolina parakeet and the giant sloths. The drums of the very last wars are beating._

_--Lydia Millet's "Oh Pure and Radiant Heart"_

When she wakes up, she discovers that it's raining. It's not just drizzling—this rain is heavy, unrelenting, and a symbolic deluge. She smiles—so she will have a reason to stay in the house all day.

She walks down to the kitchen to see if there is anything she can make for breakfast. She opens the cabinets and finds that there is only cereal—and cereal is unappetizing for her ever since she watched the documentary on it last night. It is better not to know how the food one is about to eat is made. She finds it slightly creepy to think of all the dead men who slaved over making the perfect and most profitable cereal (Post and Kellogg…sort of how she is slaving away to make the hospital profitable and run smoothly, except she won't ever get her name tied to anything permanent.) She closes the cabinets.

There are Tostitos and Lay's chips, but she can't eat those for breakfast. Even during college, she was not one of the "let's do pizza for (insert mealtime here)". She tried to eat healthy and it enabled her to fend off the "freshmen fifteen." But none of that matters, considering she only had the chips and cereal in the house.

"God, why couldn't I have bought other edible things?"

She had planned to eat out the rest of the week, but she was now currently involved in dodging a possibly unstable stalker, so that meant she would be eating in the rest of the week. And she had only made it through a three of the places she had wanted to go to!

_He's not mentally unstable_, the (in)sane part of her brain whispers.

She sighs and grabs the bag of Tostitos. She crunches on one as she pads her way to the living room. She flicks on the big screen television (no, she is not compensating for anything). After changing the channels a few times, she finds that _MASH_ is not currently on any of the one hundred stations. She sighs (_oh, satellite dish how much I miss you! Cable just doesn't compare!_). She finally settles on watching _Match Game_ on the Game Show Network (she can't figure out why she's drawn to thirty year-old television shows. It's not like the seventies were a particularly glorious decade.)

So, she settles in on the leather couch and slips the heavy blanket over her. As she drifts aimlessly, immersed in her thoughts, she wishes that she had a good girl friend. She has Marissa and Maggie whom she plays tennis with whenever they are available, but they don't count as friends. They are simply _convenient._ House is not a friend, just an employee. That really goes for all the doctors. She and Wilson used to be friends, but that was when they were happy, single, and naïve. Now she runs the hospital and doesn't have the luxury (or the ability) to gain friends. She's too tied to her work to ever get a personal life. And if she did have a personal life, it would be on her terms.

Men, she finds, don't like her need for control (or at least that's what she tells herself as the rain slams against the roof and Gene Rayburn charms the audience.)

She hopes that it rains all day.

;';

_This, _she thinks, _this is a pathetic existence._

If she realizes that the only two men who will ever be the men for her are Richard Dawson and Alan Alda, something is terrifically wrong. She's spent too much time at the hospital, and, among all those sick people, she must have lost her sanity between IVs and bedpans. Men…why does she care so much?

She gets off the sofa. She's going to get ice cream. There are two Ben and Jerry's on the damn island and she has not made use of either of their facilities. It's _Ben and Jerry's_ (and it's terribly clichéd, but deliciously so!)

She clomps up the steps and rushes into her bedroom. It's still raining, but she's been in her pajamas all day and she hasn't showered. She stands in front of the mirror and contemplates herself for a few moments. Her hair is okay (liar). It's tangled (a rat's nest), but manageable (with loads of sticky gel.) She will change, but it's her face that bothers her the most. It's sagging and she looks tired (she is.) The decision lies there before her—shower or instant gratification. She smiles when she remembers a needless lecture by a history professor once (boring.) She decides to take a shower.

It's a quick shower—she barely threads the shampoo through her hair. Cuddy steps out of the shower and commences to dry her hair. When she finishes (after a good ten minutes), she goes out to look through her (large) suitcase.

She riffles through the clothes and discovers her blue-green a-line skirt, which she takes out. After a few more minutes, she finds the sliver tank top she wears with the skirt. She changes into the outfit, slips on her white slides, and lets her hair hang loose.

Cuddy leaves the house and gets into her car. It's too far to walk (even though the rain doesn't bother her) and her shoes give her blisters within the first five feet on walking anyway.

So, she arrives at the Ben and Jerry's in record timing. Although there is a prevalence of police officers on the island, she has so far gotten away with speeding down the main street (naughty, naughty.)

She parks and gets out of her car. She thanks her favorite deity (God, Buddha, Allah, etc.) that there aren't any meters here. The town thrives off tourists—no use taking their quarters in the meters when the businesses could be profiting.

Leaving the umbrella in the trunk, she ventures across the street in the rain. Her hair (still wet from the shower) seems no different and she worries briefly about her clothes. It is only water, though (two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen.) There aren't many people at the ice cream shop and she approaches with a hint of trepidation in her right foot and a bounce in her left. She stares at the long list of choices (so many! God bless America.)

Her eyes caress the list like they would a man's body (Do. Not. Think. Of. Men.) She hates similes and especially _that _one. She shakes the thought out of her mind and decides she should make a choice.

She's always been one for irony—she tells the teenage boy at the window that she could really use an "Apple-y Ever After."

"Man, look at that. It's a Rolls-Royce," one of the workers says to another.

The man taking Cuddy's order continues to make her treat, but she swivels her head slowly. Sure enough, Joe is emerging from the car. She debates whether or not the "Apple-y Ever After" is worth it.

It's too late, because as the boy hands her the ice cream, Joe comes up from behind her, let's a hand drop on her shoulder, and smiles at the cashier.

"She's with me."

Cuddy can see the twinkle of amusement in the young boy's face. _Rich bitch_ rhymes quite nicely. She wants to tell him, though (for reasons that are purely human) that she isn't with this man. She wants him to know that she's as ordinary as he is (ordinary—if ordinary means lonely and overly cautious in every aspect of her life.)

"No, I'm not. Here," she thrusts a five dollar bill in his direction. The teenager takes it and rings it up with half-an-eyebrow arch. He hands her the change back.

"Have a nice evening."

Well, at least she's not buying condoms.

She turns around to exit the building, but Joe grabs her elbow gently.

"Please, you skipped out on dinner last night, which was unspeakably rude. But, I don't know. There's something about you," he urges, while his children stare speechlessly at the very long list (the same on she had compared to a man earlier.)

He holds out his hand.

And it's now that she realizes everything lurks just underneath the surface, waiting to escape. There's her endless sadness and her simmering humor. There's happiness somewhere, but she's too smart to let it out because it's fleeting and if she lets it out she'll never get it back…and she can't take short bursts of happiness because it ends, and it ends…and it's over.

She can't take his hand. She can't. She can't even let him pay for the ice cream because she's an independent woman and she'd rather self-implode than let a man care for her. Because she's a strong woman. Because she's self-serving. She's controlling, and, oh God, how can any man want that? It's her defense not her weakness!

"No, please, just leave me alone."

"We were meant to find each other."

"If we were meant to find each," she snarls, "we would have found each other years ago. Go."

But he doesn't leave, so she does. She doesn't wait for men to make up their minds. She wants love, but she doesn't want commitment. She wants friends but she doesn't want drama. She wants the world on a silver platter with a spoon to drink the oceans and a fork to eat the continents. But that doesn't happen and it never will.

Things—_these things_ that make up life, are going to tear her apart. She can't figure it out and she walks down the street blindly.

Her sunglasses fall over her eyes and the world's darker than it normally is. There are lights and the lights are penetrating, pinpricks of fake starlight. There's a pain…oh, it hurts! It's just her head…it's just a headache. It's just everything she never really wants. It's the weight of the world falling back on Atlas' shoulders. It's her mother twirling in the kitchen and taking pill after pill…_mother's little helper_…and there's space, and carnival rides, and sidewalk, and ocean, and a man named Joe.

The "Apple-y Ever After" gets dumped in a trashcan once she realizes that she's been clutching it since she left the store. She attributes it to her sudden stomachache. (Technically, it's called buyer's remorse.)

And when she finally arrives home, she finds her cell phone ringing with a message from House. She can't deal with him and his need for her authority to make things happen. She's tired of making things happen. She throws the phone on the ground and lets it rest there. It's indestructible; she's not.

So, she collapses on the bed and cries when Alan Alda comes on the screen. Now, that's a doctor, a man who cares, who knows war is wrong, but saves the lives anyway. He's House Lite. And who is she? She's insignificant. She doesn't save lives anymore—she balances budgets. She makes concessions to assholes and board members who pretend to save lives. She prays to God and receives her answers in dollar signs and widowed men.

And then Mike Farrell comes on the screen and he's Wilson. There's sensitivity and warmth and sarcasm and he's a foil—just like Wilson's a foil to House. They're all just foils for each other (because the world spins on an axis that's tilted at 23.some degrees and aims at the sun. There is no decent reason.)

She could go through the cast (and she does) as each one appears on the screen. She relates them to a person on the staff and she always comes back to the fact that she loves a thirty year-old television show more than anything else in her life. It's sad (the show and the fact), so she gets off the bed and goes downstairs.

She wanders into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and bends down to grab a chocolate-vanilla-chocolate pudding. She takes it out and goes to the drawer to get a spoon. She sticks the metal into the sugary concoction and goes upstairs.

After she finishes the plastic container of pudding, she sucks on the spoon. She ends up sucking on metal with the taste supplemented by her saliva. She realizes that she sounds and acts like an angsty teenager, but she shrugs the thought off because she can't deal with it.

She is on vacation, of course.


	4. Wednesday

_She's a good girl, loves her mama_

_Loves Jesus and America too_

_She's a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis_

_Loves horses and her boyfriend too_

_It's a long day living in Reseda_

_There's a freeway runnin' through the yard_

_And I'm a bad boy 'cause I don't even miss her_

_I'm a bad boy for breakin' her heart_

_And I'm free, free fallin'_

_Yeah I'm free, free fallin'_

_--Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers, "Free Fallin'"_

It's the sun that wakes her up in the morning. She forgot to shut the blinds, so the dawn sunlight was able to sneak into her room. She rubs her eyes and realizes with a start that it's Wednesday. She needs to pack and clean the house. She plans to leave tomorrow.

She throws back the covers to reveal her legs. She rubs them gently for a moment (being around House has made her grateful for working legs.) Her feet touch the carpeted ground and she remembers the night before and sighs.

She can't get a break.

Cuddy mopes to the shower, cleans herself, goes through her daily routine, and then makes her way downstairs where she finds her cell phone lying prone on the ground. She picks it up and sees that she has four new voice-mail messages. She hits the voice-mail button and enters her password into it.

"Cuddy, it's House. I need you to move a woman up on the donor list. The freaking rent-an-administrator that's taking your place won't do it. Hurry up."

She presses '7'. Delete.

"Cuddy, it's House. Where the hell are you? This woman's liver can't wait for your decision!"

She presses '7'. He could certainly ask nicer than he does.

"Lisa? It's James Wilson. House wanted me to call to bother you about getting a donor moved up on the list? It's important to him. How's your vacation, though? I hope it's going well. I'll talk to you when you get back."

"That's how to ask for a liver," she murmurs and hits '9', the 'save' button.

"Cuddy, it's House. The woman died. It wasn't her liver after all…"

She presses '7' once more and puts the phone down. She doesn't know which is worse—that a patient died or that she has a maniacal employee who doesn't understand the concept of a _vacation_ (although she doesn't really understand it either, but she can make-believe better than House can.)

And that's when she finally realizes why she's been avoiding Joe so much.

She's spent too much time around House and his closed-heart approach to love has worn off on her. Sure Joe's a perfect stranger, she knows that, but he seems nice and she can't help but think that he must know her—possibly a patient from a long time ago that she happens not to remember. But she can't let herself sink further into the pit of Greg House-like anti-socialism. This is her vacation. Wasn't she just pining over some nineteen year-old in a restaurant the other day?

Her hands comb through her hair as she slips into her flip-flops. She decides to eat out again this morning (taking the chance that Joe will see her.) She makes a mental note to _really_ start packing later. She exits the house in a flurry of keys locking and smacking shoes.

;';

At around two in the afternoon she finishes shopping for the day. She lets the bags roughly caress her hands (figuring no man will be touching them anytime soon.) It really is a good day for shopping, she concedes. It's so hot that the beach would be intolerable. And it's also too hot to play slots at Fantasy Island because too many kids would also be looking to escape the heat. Shopping is the perfect medium.

(Although she does regret spending so much on a skirt that she will probably never wear. But that's what women do, she believes. Spend money on things that they don't need but they think are pretty. At least that's what she does.)

She stops in a diner and eats a burger quickly. The diner is pretty empty, with only one or two other customers eating their meals. But it is between mealtimes, so she knows that it is the reason and not that the food is bad (although it is, and she probably wouldn't eat here, but she figures Joe wouldn't step into an establishment that sells French fries dripping in more grease than McDonald's.)

When she leaves, she realizes that rich men like greasy fries just as much as poor men. Joe holds the door for her as she exits and he smiles at her, while shooing his kids into the eatery.

"Can I ask you out again? I'm a three-strikes kind of guy."

She almost feels bad for him, asking her out. He doesn't even really know her. Who is he to ignore the fact that's she's as selfish and insecure as House is? How does he know she has a doctor she can't control and a hospital she can barely run?

_Lisa!_

"Where?"

"Miniature golfing."

"You say it like it's a sin."

"I'm a good regular golfer. I hate mini-golfing."

"What makes you think I like it?"

"You look like the type of woman who likes to compete," he tells her and watches as his kids get a table. He is still holding the door open for her.

"Fine."

"But _I'm _picking you up. Now, where do you live?"

"129 Terrace Drive, Beach Haven."

"Say 8?"

"Alright," she says with more reluctance floating through her mind than through her voice.

"Great," he smiles and she walks through the door making a mental note to not go on dates with strangers.

;';

"So, where are your kids?"

"Well," Joe drops his ball on the tee and lines up his shot. "The oldest is fourteen, so she's watching the two younger boys. Plus, my cousin lives across the street—he does real estate down here—so he's helping me out. Let's me get a night out on a town with a woman as pretty as you are."

He smiles and strikes the ball. It skips its way over the bump in the green turf before ricocheting off the back wall behind the hole. He walks towards his ball and taps it into the hole.

"Two," he tells her and bends down to grab the ball out of the cup.

She writes the number on the scorecard and proceeds to hold it between her lips (along with the golf pencil) as she hits her own shot. It also bounces off the back wall and she then proceeds to tap it into the hole. Two.

"So, what do you do?" He asks her as they proceed to hole two.

"I'm dean of medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro."

"The teaching hospital?"

"Yeah."

"I had an uncle who worked down there about ten years or so ago. He left to start his own practice. He liked it very much."

"Yes, it's a great hospital," she grins.

They play out the hole without any conversation. On the next hole, Cuddy starts asking the questions again.

"And what do you do for a living? Business, I'm assuming from the looks of your car."

"Yup. Plus investments here and there."

"You're not going to tell me where you work?"

He blushes.

"I'm not a big fan of discussing that."

"But you certainly didn't mind divulging the fact that you own a Rolls."

"Well," he shrugs and putts. She stops the ball with her foot.

"Don't screw with me. Please. I've gone through enough bad guys to know that the good ones are usually a lot more open than this. Care to say anything?"

"Let my ball go?"

"Pay the ransom."

His lips tighten.

"I manage a few papers across the country. Some are small local ones and others are major publications. I don't like to bring work into pleasure. And my Rolls happens to bring me a lot of pleasure," he smiles at this last sentiment. Cuddy bites back a sarcastic remark (like something that involves masturbation and compensation…bad girl).

_This isn't House, this isn't even Wilson…why does every man remind her of her employees_?

"That's great," she responds and remembers that she never really was any good at faking happiness or enthusiasm. Her sister could hold up the false pretenses for much longer.

"You play any other sports?" He asks her as they continue to make their way around the mini-golf course.

"Tennis. I love the sport. You?"

"Tennis, too. It's a shame I'm leaving tomorrow morning, otherwise we could've played a couple matches."

Now, that is a shame, she thinks. She could've used a good match before she left the island. She had brought her racquet along to play, but it seems that no one wants to play tennis at the beach.

"When are you leaving tomorrow morning?"

"As soon as the kids cash in their points at Fantasy Island. It's 20 off of all the stuff from 12 until 2. I told them I'd just buy them the stuff, but you know kids," he shrugs and she finally decides to be truthful.

"Actually, I really don't know kids, but that's okay. Would you like to play in the morning? I don't mind getting up early."

"Sure we could play if you really wanted to. I guess 9 a.m. would be fine for me."

She putts her ball into the hole and grins back at him.

"Works for me."

They play their way around the course. The amusement park rides loom over them as the play—colored lights and the spinning Ferris wheel add a childish dynamic to the whole proceedings.

Joe proves himself to be the quite the golf player and Cuddy tallies their scores at the end of the game. She ends up losing terribly and congratulates Joe on a game well played.

"As victor, may I decide what we do next?"

"You've got the right to."

"I want to take you on the Ferris wheel."

She groans.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm…afraid of heights."

"I promise to hold you tight," he grins and they walk into the Fantasy Island conclave.

She waits as he gets tickets. The line is long and they wait patiently. She's worried now. There's just something wrong with being thrust up above the ground, above the safe haven of earth. They aren't birds, they aren't bees, and she knows they're not meant to fly. She's scared of falling, of opening, of drowning in the air. He takes her hand. And now, she's just afraid of him.

She's been scared of too many things for too long she realizes as they step into one of the Ferris' wheels compartment. She settles down, closes her eyes, and prays for safety. He lets an arm snake around her shoulders and he continues to hold her hand in his lap. The wheel turns—there's gravity, and motion, and energy, she figures. They stop. At the top.

"Oh my God," she says with her eyes closed.

"Open your eyes," Joe whispers into her ear.

And slowly, carefully, she opens her eyes.

She looks around and sees progress, people, and problems, but they're far away because she's floating above the earth with a man she doesn't really know. Her eyes immediately search for the ocean.

She finds it and the sight of the water comforts her. It's still there. It hasn't disappeared, it's still there, it's still there, it's still there…

And that's when Joe leans in and kisses her and the Ferris wheel starts moving again.

Slowly, carefully, but moving nonetheless.


	5. Thursday

**Author's Note: **Thanks to Marti for the beta and encouragement on this story.

_Madman drummers bummers and Indians in the summer with a teenage_

_diplomat _

_In the dumps with the mumps as the adolescent pumps his way into his hat _

_With a boulder on my shoulder, feelin' kinda older, I tripped the merry-go-round _

_With this very unpleasing sneezing and wheezing, the calliope crashed to the ground…_

_And she was blinded by the light _

_Cut loose like a deuce, another runner in the night _

_Blinded by the light _

_She got down but she never got tight, but she'll make it alright _

_--Bruce Springsteen, "Blinded by the Light"_

The alarm trills at six in the morning. She slaps it and it teeters on the edge of the nightstand before falling off completely. Stupid clock.

But it's the fall that wakes her up and she gets out of bed. She is dizzy for a moment, but that's the after-effect of going on a Ferris wheel. Moving on the same path, on the same circle is just not what she likes to do (not anymore.)

She hums happily as she opens the drawers and throws the clothes that she unpacked into her suitcase. She thanks herself for being so lazy and not bothering to remove half of the stuff in her luggage. It takes her fifteen minutes before her bags are packed and shoved into the car.

She doesn't bother showering and dresses in her new tennis outfit. It's a powder blue skirt and a white tank top (part of it was designed by Maria Sharapova—pretty clothes for pretty women.)

She does a once-over of the house—AC turned off, bathrooms cleaned, bed stripped, nothing left—and finds it to her satisfaction. It is only seven in the morning, but she has several engagements before her tennis date.

;';

The bay is beautiful as the sun hovers over the horizon. She sits on the splintery bench and takes in the crabbers setting traps and lines. The occupants of the houses that border this sightseeing spot are asleep—lights aren't on, breakfast isn't being made. She smiles—she wishes she could sleep that late.

So, Cuddy hops off the bench and scoops up a handful of rocks. When she was younger, her father took her and her sister to the bay and instructed them on the finer points of rock throwing. _It's all in the wrist_.

It takes her a few rocks to finally be able to snap her wrist in just the right way. Muscles remember better than her brain does and she is able to have the rocks skipping three times before she realizes that it's a little past 7:30. She takes another rock and launches it. It sinks slowly after two skips, but she is satisfied and bids a silent farewell to the bay.

Instead of walking to the ocean, she takes her car. It's the last time she will see the house until next summer and says goodbye to it because she's suddenly sentimental. She hates leaving—she hates know that there are another 365 days stretching before her—each one a challenge, each one a journey—and each one standing between her and heaven again.

She crosses the intersection and finds a parking space in front of someone's house. Probably someone sleeping or someone waking—probably someone who won't be happy to find that there's a car that isn't theirs parked in front of their home. Whoops.

She shouldn't wear sneakers on the beach, but she walks through the sand in them anyway. Laziness is a sin. (At least in her mind it is.) She walks to the frothy edge of the waves and sticks a hand into the water. It laps over her fingers and onto her wrist. The grains of sand in the salt water stick to her hand. She removes the hand from the water and wipes it on her skirt. And then she starts running.

Lisa Cuddy isn't a runner. Never has been and she's not starting now. But she runs because of the sudden burst of adrenaline coursing through her system. No one's chasing her, no one's looking for her, she just wants to run.

She runs for what she thinks is hours, but is only a few minutes. Her breasts ache from being jostled up and down (she's never been able to stand the hindrance of her boobs and that's why she's not a runner.) She stops, puts her hands on her knees, and begins to regain her breath. She doesn't know why she sprinted down the beach, but she decides to walk back to her car.

Her farewell to the ocean is terse, just a small glance at the whitecaps in the distance. The wind whips her hair around her face and as she makes her way to her car, she ties it back into a ponytail. The car starts with a twist of her key and she can see the curtain in the house she has pulled in front of pull back curiously.

She stops by a little bagel place and gets a plain bagel and a Snapple. It never hurts to eat before a tennis match, she has learned. Something light—no eggs, bacon, and home fries for her.

She eats the food in her car and watches the other vehicles go by on the street. It's quiet because it's so early and she doesn't mind. That means that the tennis courts will be open and not much of the background noise will interfere with their game.

_Their_. As in Joe's and hers. She's not sure if she's ever felt comfortable with describing something as _theirs_ or _ours_. It bothers her the slightest bit—it's her discomfort with commitment, with being part of a pair.

(She'll take bantering opponents, low-attention friends, and doubles partners, but make her part of a more permanent duo and she hates it. She rebels.)

The car's clock reads 8:45 and she switches gears to drive. The courts are two minutes away and she finds a place to park rather quickly. As she waits for Joe, she finishes off her Snapple, digs around for her water, and taps her nails on the steering wheel. Patiently.

Joe's Rolls Royce pulls into the lot. She still can't believe he drives such an ostentatious car. It's too showy for her tastes and she exits her own, shabby-in-comparison car feeling as if she's dressed in her pajamas at a ball.

"Good morning, Lisa."

"Joe."

"Ready to lose? Again?"

"Well, my backhand's been so weak lately…"

;';

Two hours later and her backhand bluff pays off quite nicely. Her best shot is her backhand and he keeps feeding her these lobs that she's just murdering. He's not a bad tennis player and they end up splitting the first two sets. By the time they're on the fourth game of the third set, Joe resigns from the game. She almost throws a tantrum on the court (even though she wins if he forfeits) because she doesn't like to win the easy way.

"I have kids, Lisa, and I did promise them that I'd take them to redeem their tickets."

"Forget your kids. Let's finish this."

"I can't forget my kids. I can't do that."

She uses her racquet as her cane and she leans most of her weight on the Wilson butt-cap as she stares at him from across the court. _Truth or dare?_

"Alright fine."

She starts to move around and gathers the balls that are hers. He walks to the net and holds out his hand. She shifts the racquet and the balls and shakes his hand.

"Good match," she tells him.

"And the backhand you have is devastating," he responds.

"Thanks."

They walk to their cars in silence. She opens the passenger door of hers and throws her tennis stuff on the seat. She opens the glove box, while he puts his equipment in the trunk of his vehicle.

When they meet to say goodbye, they meet in the middle. She holds her business card and hands it to him.

"Here. If you're in the area, call. We can get together. Play a match. Drink a beer."

He laughs.

"I see you as more of the champagne girl."

She smiles.

"I usually am."

"Well," he moves closer to her and she can smell the cinnamon Ice Breakers on his breath.

"Yeah."

"This is goodbye. I had a great time. Last night and today."

"Me, too."

He bends down and kisses her nose. She smiles gently.

"I'll give you a call sometime," he tells her and starts to back away.

It's then that she remembers something.

"Oh, Joe, wait!"

She rushes to her car and grabs her purse. After a quick search, she finds the ticket with her winnings.

"Here, give this to your kids. I don't want it."

He stares at the number on the check and smiles at her.

"Will do. They'll be really pleased."

She smiles and walks to her car. He does the same. He allows her to pull out first and she turns left.

_Home_.

;';_Two weeks later_;';

"Package, Dr. Cuddy."

"From whom?"

The UPS man stands in front of her in her office with a small brown package in his hand. He hands it to her so she can inspect it.

"Don't know, ma'am."

"Alright, do I need to sign something?"

"Yes, just right here."

She scribbles her signature and the deliveryman leaves. She reaches into her desk and pulls out some scissors. She sticks them in between the tape and the cardboard flaps. She gets the box open and discovers a mess of packaging peanuts. She curses the company who sent her whatever is in the box.

When she finally finds what is underneath the Styrofoam nightmare, she gasps. It's another box, but this one has permanent marker scrawled on the outside.

_I saw this and thought of you.—Joe._

She opens the box and finds a tennis ball signed by Andy Roddick. A sticker is affixed to it—57, 650 points.

She smiles and realizes how glad she is that she gave her Fantasy Island points to Joe.

_End_


End file.
